


Lovesick

by MALLR4TS



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Crying, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Lovesickness, Mental Breakdown, Mentions of Violence, Mostly Micahs POV, Pining, Secret Admirer, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27714706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MALLR4TS/pseuds/MALLR4TS
Summary: The last thing Micah Bell ever expected to happen in his storm of a life is for him to get soft on a woman, but that's exactly what's happened. And now, Micah has to figure out if he wants to keep suppressing those feelings or finally act on them.(Work in progress)
Relationships: Micah Bell/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really really really really really enjoy the idea of Micah getting super-duper soft on someone and struggling with those mushy feelings, so why not write a multi-chapter fic about it?? 
> 
> This was heavily inspired by the song 'Whiskey - Tejon Street Corner Thieves'. I can totally picture Micah being the kinda guy to suppress his mushy feeling with alcohol. I was gonna make this a short fic where a very drunk Micah confronts the reader like "ahh I'm drunk and i hate you because you make me feel like this," and then I got carried away because I'm a sucker for super slow burn >:) 
> 
> Tumblr and Twitter are @MALLR4TS

He hates you. He despises you. Even just the thought of you makes him sick to his stomach, sick to the point where he can barely stand up straight. And whenever he sees you? Whenever you come over to him with that soft smile on your face and talk to him as if he's a normal human being? _God._ That makes him so much worse. He hates the way you make him feel, the way no woman should make him feel. He'll happily point and laugh at any man that allows a woman to tell him what to do, to make a man soft and worship the ground she walks on. But Micah's found himself in the last predicament that he thought he'd ever end up in; he was expecting to finally have a noose stay around his neck and steal him from this world, but instead, he finds himself here.   
  
Micah looks up from his knife, sharpening it over and over whilst he leans against a tree on the outskirts of camp. It's gentle out here, calming, with a pretty view of the red sand that welcomes the lake as the waves rock back and forth. But no picturesque setting can at least settle the flames that burn inside of him. Micah's always been a loose cannon, a devil walking amongst the earth. He never really questions his actions, he just does them, especially when the bastards on the other end of his gun deserve it. But that fire inside of him is slowly turning into a sickness, a dizzy and sweaty sickness that makes him question his actions simply because he worries about what you'd think.   
  
He was so disappointed in himself the first time it happened. He'd trailed across to Valentine saloon with yourself and a few other camp members, only because you'd invited him. The other men didn't pay much attention to him, but you did. You stuck beside him all night, practically pouring liquor down his throat as he tried to calm that feeling he gets whenever he's within ten meters of you. A stranger had tried to grab you on your way back over to the table, and Micah was straight to his feet, storming over and landing a punch perfectly on that poor fuckers nose.   
  
At first, you were glad that Micah had your back. But the more punches Micah landed, the more that stranger's face turned blue. You only had to bark Micah's name once to catch his attention; his head perked up, the stranger's blood splattered across his face, but his wild eyes had calmed the second he locked onto you. He dropped that man to the floor and left him to the elements, following you out the Saloon and apologizing over and over for getting so carried away.   
  
"He shouldn't have touched you," Micah had told you.   
  
"I know, and I appreciate you sticking up for me, but you got so carried away. He's probably gonna die from those injuries. You've gotta stop being so bloodthirsty," you told him as he helped you up onto your mount, climbing on top of Baylock shortly after.   
  
"Bloodthirsty?" Micah questioned. The word echoed throughout his brain, settling in his stomach as his nerves were turned to a different kind of mush. He felt cold and isolated, like he had disappointed you and ruined any chance of you ever falling for him, not that there probably was a chance to begin with.   
  
"Yeah, bloodthirsty," you repeated, nodding at the same time.   
  
He apologized to you again and told you he'd sort himself out, that he'd stop acting on impulse and anger. You tried to laugh it off with him; "Of course you will, and I'll grow wings and fly." Micah laughed along with you but the fact that you doubted him so much kept him awake for days, not that he sleeps much anyway.   
  
  
How dare you. How dare you have such power over him, despite not even being his, or being aware of it. Sure, you're kind and polite to him, but you have no ties to him. You've barely flirted with him, and surprisingly, he hasn't tried flirting with you either. Whenever you're around he can't put on that cheesy act, he can't throw a few pick up lines your way and hope for the best. Micah finds himself actually wanting to impress you, to show you his best side in hopes of winning you over.  
  
It's sickening.   
  
Micah scowls and sharpens his blade a little harsher. He's not frustrated at you, not one bit, but he definitely is frustrated at himself. He can't believe he's fallen for a woman; he's not just fallen, he's tripped over and fell face-first into a ten feet deep grave, and he wouldn't be surprised if you decided to leave him down there, or bury him alive.   
  
Amos once used a specific word when he first started feeling like this when he met his wife - lovesick. Micah hates that word, he despises it, but only because he can feel it right now. It fits so perfectly, so snug. To be in love with someone so much that they physically make you sick. It's amazing how one person can do that to another and not even be aware of it. Micah's surprisingly acted like his usual self when he's around you, though the odd stutter has slipped out, along with his hands that are now almost always clammy. He hopes you haven't noticed it, especially when he put a wad of cash in your hands after a robbery you'd assisted him with.   
  
  
He has slipped up once though, and he knows he slipped up because you approached him the next day to check if he was alright, to which he excused himself again and ran off. It was hard not to notice the mess Micahs knuckles were in the day after that saloon fight; they were swollen, an array of purple and red blotches, some parts of his skin had even torn.   
  
"That looks nasty," you said as you caught Micah's attention. He brushed it off, saying it was nothing, but you continued to push at it. "I've got something that might help, let me go fetch it," you said. Before Micah could protest, you'd already ran off.  
  
He took a seat at the campfire with you and on command, held his hand out. Micah watched you as you dabbed the ointment onto a cloth and then _oh god_ , you're holding his hand. _Oh fuck. Oh shit_. Your fingertips are pressed against his palm, your skin against his, as your other hand holds the damp cloth onto his knuckles.   
  
Was this it? Was this the day that Micah was going to embarrass himself in front of you? Was he going to throw up? Maybe pass out? You're being so kind and gentle, helping heal his wounds, something that nobody has ever done before. " _She's just a friend, she's just being kind to you,_ " Micah tells himself over and over, trying to remind himself that you'd never fall for a devil like him.   
  
"How longs this gonna take?" Micah asks, trying to mentally prepare himself for however long he's going to feel sick for.  
  
"Oh? You got places to be, Micah?" you ask with a laugh, eyes briefly meeting his before focusing on his hand again.   
  
"I'm a busy man, sweetheart. Someones gotta bring in the money," he tells you. Oops. The pet name didn't mean to slip out, but you don't cast a scowl or begin to hurdle abuse at him, you seem to barely notice it.  
  
"Of course you are, Micah. The busiest man in the camp, always sharpening his knife or cleaning his guns," you say with a laugh.   
  
"I mean it. I've got a robbery that needs attending to," Micah lies, though you seem to be falling for it.  
  
"Fine, fine," you sigh, moving your hands off Micahs. You look up at Micah, expecting him to thank you and leave, but he sits there blankly. "Well? Ain't you gotta go rob some folk?" you ask.   
  
"Yeah, sure. I'll see you around, thanks again," Micah quickly mutters before jumping to his feet and running off.   
  
He managed to rob a few folk on his ride around the area, the ride that was meant to settle his nerves and clear his mind. It worked, and Micah felt like his normal self once he began robbing folk, but all his progress crashed and burned when he trailed back into camp that night and accidentally locked eyes with you. What a fool this man is.   
  
  
The sound of your laughter catches Micahs attention. He's been stood leaning against this tree for god knows how long, thinking about you, not that his mind isn't always occupied with thoughts of you. But that's a different kind of laugh you're letting out, one that Micah's only heard when it surprisingly been directed at him. He peers over his shoulder and gazes into camp to find you talking to Arthur. He's babbling away about whatever, talking to a few of the girls though you're sat amongst them.   
  
They're all laughing along with him, and Micah isn't sure if you're laughing louder than the others, or if he's just more focused on you. But either way, it hurts. Micah hates feeling jealous, just as much as he hates feeling lovesick. But Arthur? Why does Arthur have to be the one to make you laugh like that? Why can't he just fuck off and leave at least one of the women available? He's a big, dumb idiot, but he knows how to make the women swoon, especially all the camp ones.   
  
Micah holsters his knife and throws the whetstone to the floor in anger. As the stone hits the ground, he instantly regrets his outburst, knowing that if you saw that, you'd be disappointed in him for acting out in anger. He checks over his shoulder but you've thankfully not noticed, still fixated on that big dummy. Micah rubs his face, trying to brush away that feeling inside of him but it's no use. He hears your laughter again and begins walking away.   
  
He needs to get away from that situation. He doesn't want to hear nor see other men flirting with you, not only because he gets jealous, but because it reminds him that you'd never go for a man like him. Maybe Micah should avoid you for a while? Maybe he should give himself some space in hopes of killing off all those feelings he has for you? 


	2. Chapter 2

Micah's not been seen around camp for a week now. He left in the night without telling anybody where he's going, not even Dutch. He's occupied his time well, doing all his favourite things and visiting two close friends of his. His thoughts of you become less and less, and eventually, he feels settled enough to return to camp, ready to suppress those feelings and push you away.   
  
He returns during the evening, trotting back into Clemens Point to overhear Pearson shouting that dinner was ready. Baylock is hitched and his saddle is removed, swung over the hitching post so his mount can relax. Micah spends the evening lounging about, speaking to a few camp members, half-eating his food, the usual stuff, but there's been no sign of you.   
  
Good. He doesn't need to see you right now.  
  
The night is spent drinking with Bill before he goes off on guard duty, leaving Micah to have another glass of whiskey on his own. Nature eventually calls, and Micah forces himself to his feet so he can wander off into the forest and empty his bladder.   
He hums to himself as he does so, his feet stumbling ever so slightly but he only considers himself tipsy. If a stranger were to waltz into camp with their guns blazing, Micah knows he's somewhat sober enough to take them on, and that's the only reason why he doesn't consider himself to be drunk.   
  
He takes his time wandering back into camp but a noise in the distance perks his ears up. Micah stands still, his feet coming to the halt so he can focus on the sound rather than the crunching earth beneath his feet. It's a whimper, as if a baby deer has been left by itself nearby, no momma to be found.   
Micah follows the sound, curious to know what's crying out nearby. He'd normally ignore it, but his gut is telling him to follow, even though he told himself that he'd stop listening to his gut so much as it always got him caught up in some kind of trouble, usually feelings related.  
  
Micah wanders well into the outskirts of camp, trailing down along the shoreline and coming to a halt when he finds the source of the sound. It's you, your knees up to your chin with your arms wrapped around them. You're sobbing into your lap, your knees muffling most of your cries though some had seemed to slip out.  
  
Micah finds himself in a predicament and curses whoever is in the sky for pulling him into this one. Should he sneak away and let the guilt of knowing he left you alone to cry settle on his shoulders for however long it chooses to stay? Or should he go over and comfort you, knowing that sickness inside of him will spark up again? Although, it's already begun to return.   
  
He sighs as he rests his hands on his hips. There's no getting rid of these feelings, is there? This isn't a somewhat simple matter where he can pull his revolvers out and shoot at the thing that's eating him up. This is something new, something that he can't just run away from, though this isn't the first time he's run away from his feelings. Micah knows that if the situations were reversed, that you'd come running over to let him cry into your arms. And as much as he wants to, he doesn't want those feeling to begin controlling him again.   
  
Before Micah can make a decision, his feet are already pacing over to you. It seems he was set on his decision the second he saw you like this, and he was only stalling to try and prepare himself for those feelings to return.   
  
  
Micah clears his throat, catching your attention. "You alright?" he asks with that drawl, though he knows what your answer is.   
  
A pair of glossy eyes look up to meet his, and Micah feels his heart beginning to melt at the sight. "Sweetheart," Micah sighs without realising, settling down beside you.   
  
"I'm fine, Micah. Really," you tell him as you wipe your eyes, letting your legs settle and no longer be bunched up against your chest.   
  
"Now, I know that ain't true," he shakes his head. "What's a matter?" he asks.   
  
You give your eyes another rub as you clear your throat. "Y-you ever think you're alone in this world? Like, I know I ain't technically alone, but I sure do feel it," you tell him without hesitation, knowing that Micah is the kind of person who can relate. The other camp members would begin to tell you how many people are here for you, trying to reassure you, and although that's a kind gesture, it's not the one you're looking for.   
  
Micah, on the other hand, knows what true loneliness is like - to have nobody but yourself, and to be like that for years on end. Maybe you were two sides of the same coin.  
His ears perk up at your words, surprised that you felt such a way. It tugs on his heartstrings, an organ that everybody doubts Micah has, but you're the only person who seems to remind him that he does have a heart after all.   
  
"I know what that feels like," Micah says with a laugh. "I'm surprised you feel like that, 'specially with being the camp's favourite," he continues, his eyes flicking out at the water before returning back to you.   
  
"I wouldn't call myself that, I'm no Arthur. I know I fit in just fine, but there's only so much a group of friends can do, you know?"   
  
"Oh, I don't exactly know how that feels, sweetheart. But I understand what you're feeling. You're lonely-lonely, ain'tcha?" Micah asks, and doesn't seem surprised when you nod in agreement. "Mhmm," he hums, "I know how that feels."   
  
"Ain't you ever had someone be sweet on you before, Micah?" you ask him. Micah can't help but laugh a little at your question, assuring himself that you know what his answers going to be.   
  
"Course not," he replies somewhat confidently, though he doesn't seem proud with his reply.   
  
"I'm surprised," you tell him. Micahs eyes flick over to you like a spooked owl, uncertain if he heard exactly what he thought you said.   
  
"You're what?" Micah questions, his face relaxing as he tries not to look a wide range of negative emotions, ones that he'd rather not show.  
  
"I'm surprised. I know the camp doesn't exactly like you, but you've always been so kind to me. You've helped me out on more than one occasion without me asking for it, you'll carry my ass during a gunfight, and you always seem to give to me but never take. Hell, you're here comforting me now when I'm certain some folk would have pretended not to notice me," you tell him.   
  
Micah has to dip his head a little as you speak, covering his eyes with the brim of his hat. You can tell that nobody has ever said such words to him, though he's doing a good job of suppressing that sickness inside of him, preventing it from coming up to the surface to show you just how soft he is on you. He's meant to be a rugged outlaw, a man that kills and robs for fun, when really he feels like a child at Christmas whenever he's near you.  
  
"Guess that's what friends are for, huh?" Micah replies, trying to keep his gaze hidden and his eyes forward.   
  
"Yeah," you nod, moving your eyes over to the scenery. You can't help that a lone tear escapes from the corner of your eyes, a leftover from earlier, but Micah looks at you from under the brim of his hat at just the right time to see it escape. You've done a good job at suppressing the loneliness inside of you for so long, but every now and again, your emotions get the better of you and you just need to let it all out.  
  
"Hey," Micah says as he sits upright, reaching out to wipe the lone tear from your cheek without thinking about it. "You still got some left inside of ya?" he questions, to which you nod in agreement.   
  
"You need a shoulder to cry on?" Micah asks, his stomach turning at the thought of you finding comfort in him. He's expecting you to brush it off, to say you're fine, but instead, you're nodding again and shuffling closer to him.  
  
  
At first, you simply lean against his shoulder, your cheek and temple pressed against his red shirt. You cling onto his arm like a nervous child, letting your tears flow once again. Micah's trying his best not to feel sick; he's never had somebody find comfort in him before, even though you're only clinging onto his arm, but it's enough to soften his heart and cloud his mind.   
  
A choked sob escapes your lips and Micah finally snaps at the sound of you in pain. Without thinking, he scoops you up, pulling you onto his lap and holding you tightly against his chest. There's a brief pause from you and Micah's certain that he's finally done it - he's finally stuck his foot into a door that should be closed, but his mind eases out as your arms wrap around him and your head buries deeper into his chest.   
  
The feeling of your tears against his skin makes Micah hold his breath, eventually letting it out slowly as he rests his chin on the top of your head. He's not quite sure what to do with his hands; one rests on your waist, whilst the other begins to trail up and down your back, comforting you in an uncertain way as he's never done this before, but he seems to be a natural as you find peace in this storm of a man.  
  
Micah hears you let out another choked sob and he holds onto you a little tighter. "Let it all out," he coos in a voice so soft that it could send a lamb to sleep. He's taken aback, not knowing he had such softness inside of him. Micah has to hear that tone again, to remind himself that he has that ability to be so gentle. "I'm here for ya," he says, the words slipping out of his mouth.  
  
The faint sound of a "thank you," from your lips finally melts Micahs ice-cold heart. And to think, this time yesterday he was pacing around his camp, telling himself over and over that he wasn't going to let 'any damn woman' turn him into such a mess. Maybe he could make an exception? Well, he knows he can because he already has.  
  
You take your time, letting out all the tears you have left. It feels nice to have somebody comforting you, especially as it's someone you weren't expecting. Everybody needs to cry sometimes, and you're sure Micah knows that far too well.   
  
  
Within time, you feel yourself calming down. Your lungs and muscles begin to relax, your breaths becoming longer and deeper, and your eyes are no longer glossy. You continue to take comfort in the man wrapped around you, holding onto him a little tighter as you move your head from his loosely buttoned shirt, up to the curve of his neck. His beard brushes over your forehead, but his cheek eventually rests against it as his body relaxes.   
  
This is a feeling that Micah could definitely get used to - the feeling of you snuggled up to him, your body fitting perfectly against his like a two-piece puzzle, even though he's struggled to put the pieces together for so long. That sickly feeling in his stomach is slowly settling, moving up his body and burning in his chest, though he prefers the burning over the sickness.   
  
"How're you feelin'?" Micah asks you, giving your back another gentle rub.  
  
"I'm getting there," you tell him. "Got a headache now though," you say with a slight laugh.   
  
"Must be dehydrated, though it's good you let them tears out," he replies. "You want me to go fetch you a drink?" Micah offers. He'd rather sit here with you in his arms, but he'd put your needs over his wants any day.   
  
"You've done enough for me, lettin' me cry all over you and soak your shirt," you say with a laugh. "I should probably get to bed anyway," you sigh, not wanting to move though you assume Micah is sick of you crying all over him by now. You're definitely mistaken.  
  
"C'mon then. Let's get you to bed," he says, his voice still as soft as earlier. That softness is intoxicating, a gentleness that you've never seen before; it urges you to hold onto him and never let go, but you force yourself off him, shuffling away so Micah can slowly get up onto his feet.  
  
You give your eyes another rub and as you open them, Micahs hand is out waiting for you. He helps you up and almost seems reluctant to move his hand away, but he forces himself to, not wanting to cross any boundaries.   
  
  
He walks you back to camp. It's silent for once, surprisingly peaceful as nobody is up drinking, singing, telling stories around the campfire. Micah urges you to get to bed whilst he fetches you a drink and you do so, scooting into your enclosed tent.  
  
"Here," Micah says as he crouches down in the entrance and hands you a cup of water. You gulp it down before thanking him, filling your body with the water you'd lost during your breakdown.   
  
"Now get some sleep. You must be exhausted," Micah coos. He's about to stand up and leave you to it, but you call out his name. Micah turns his attention back to you, a pair of sad eyes in the darkness of your tent. All he wants is to crawl in and settle down beside you, sleeping peacefully for once, but only because he doesn't feel like he needs to keep his guard up around you.   
  
"Thank you," you tell him again, a lot clearer than your sobbed manners from earlier.   
  
"S'alright, darlin'," Micah replies with a small nod. He flashes you a smile before finally getting up and leaving, letting you enjoy a well-needed rest.  
  
  
Micah trails over to his usual spot by the campfire. That feeling of whiskey in his blood is long gone by now; the shock of seeing you in such a state must have sobered him up, and he doesn't feel the need to pick up another bottle and begin wrestling those emotions again. He's somewhat content, though he fears that this was just a chance encounter, that tomorrow you'll be back to being the camp's favourite member to flirt with, and he'll have to stand on the sidelines and watch but be too scared to take any action.   
  
However, Micah feels calm enough to get some rest, even if it is just letting his head dip and having a snooze on this uncomfortable chair. It's better than nothing, and he knows he'll be awake before anybody else, preventing them from seeing him in his most vulnerable state. If only you had asked him to stay.   
  
Micahs mind becomes clouded with the thought of curling up beside you. He'd rest however you want, cuddling or not; he'd even be happy if you turned away from him or just used his body for some extra warmth. Micah wants to tell himself off, to slap himself around the face for being so desperate for your affection, but he'll allow himself to dream about such things just for tonight.   
  
The thought of settling down beside you sends him to sleep, with his hands resting on his stomach and one ankle crossed over the other.


	3. Chapter 3

  
The sun has risen and wildlife is chirping, but it's not enough to wake you. You're still conked out, exhausted, catching up on all the energy that was drained from you during your slip-up. It isn't until noon that you finally wake, and instantly shame your body for waking you up, as your head is pounding and your mouth is dryer than New Austin.

You force yourself up, only so you can exit your tent to grab a cup of water and some medicine for your headache. A few of your companions greet you with various 'hello's' and 'look who's finally up,' to which you excuse yourself and assure them that you're definitely not ready to be awake yet. Back into your tent you go, and you enjoy lying there in your still-warm bed, waiting for your headache to pass, and then finally begin to get ready for what's left of the day.

Susan isn't too happy with your lie-in, but little does she know that you have a valid reason for it; none of the camp members know of your breakdown, minus the one member who doesn't seem to be around. You keep an eye out for Micah all afternoon, and soon assume that he's gone out scouting for leads, or whatever Dutch's top dogs do.

You're no stranger to a gun, not a bow and arrow, and you spend part of your afternoon hunting for tonight's dinner. Dutch is still hesitant on taking you along on the 'real' heists, just like he is with Sean; however, Sean is reckless and wild, but Dutch is more of a stranger to you. He's told you before that he has no doubts on how well you handle a firearm, but he's waiting for just the right opportunity for you to show those skills off. Well, he told you that months ago, back when you joined the gang when they were out West, a month or so before they finally moved to Blackwater, and things began to fall apart once more.

At least the other gang members don't doubt your skills, and have even vouched for you when Dutch picks out his posse for each heist. You've been on many stagecoach robberies with Lenny and Sean, a train hold-up with Javier and John, and a few calmer conman schemes with Hosea. You know your worth and weight, and as long as you know it, then that's all that matters.

  
A familiar voice perks your head up, distracting you from your manifesting thoughts, and you're greeted by Micah who is now taking a seat beside you.

"How're you feeling today?" he questions, his voice slightly lowered. You're thankful he has the decency to keep your situations private.

"I woke up feeling rough, but I'm much better now," you assure him, and Micah seems pleased with the result.

"Good, good," he sends a smile your way.

"I've gotta thank you again, you really helped me last night," you tell him, letting your sewing fall onto your lap, neglected for an important reason.

Micah softly laughs and lowers his head, "you ain't gotta thank me, I didn't even do anything, just held you for a while," Micah responds, although he stutters over a few words. You don't think much of it.

"But that was what I needed," you sigh. You don't hesitate to reach your hand out and place it over Micah's arm, reassuring him that he did the right thing, that he helped more than he'll ever realize.

Micah looks down at your hand, his cheeks turning as red as his shirt, and you notice how he lowers his hat to hide his face. His heart is pounding in his chest, feeling like it's ready to burst at any minute. For some reason, this small gesture pains him more than having you in his arms last night; it's soft, subtle, and being done in the middle of camp. Anybody could look over now and assume an array of things from simply seeing your hand resting on Micah's arms, and without context, they probably would.

"If you say so," Micah finally replies, and raises his head to look at you once your hand moves away.

  
You send a smile his way, and then decide to move on the conversation. "I ain't seen you in that outfit before," you comment. Micah's wearing dark shades for once, black, in fact; his pants are black, tucked into a pair of new, dark leather boots, he also wears a black shirt, buttoned up to the collar, with a red vest, followed by his leather coat, and his iconic white hat.

"Oh, this? Yeah, my other pants ripped," Micah shrugs as he leans back to rest on his elbows, settling comfortably beside you.

"It's nice, suits you, very outlaw-like," you say with a smile.

"You think so?" Micah questions, and internally scolds himself for perking up like a puppy at your words of praise.

"Mhmm," you agree with a nod, "go and fetch those other pants, I'll fix them for you, it's the least I can do," you order.

"Now, you ain't gotta-"

"-go on," you order him again, and Micah softly laughs before forcing himself up, trailing off to retrieve his ripped clothing.

Micah takes his time without realizing it; he stored them in Baylocks saddle bags, scrunched up and stuffed into one of them. He was going to fix them himself, not wanting to be somebody else's burden, although he doesn't have the confidence to ask for anybody's help either. His mind turns hazy again, and you're at the front of his thoughts as he trails over, smiling to himself at your affirmation.

Micah won't deny that he likes a woman who puts her foot down, who knows exactly what she wants, and exactly how to get it; he knows you're that woman and he's seen it many times before, but never directed at him until now. It's such a minor gesture, you shooing him away with an order that is only going to benefit him.

  
He trails back over and squats down on his heels beside you, finding the rip. "S'there," Micah comments, poking his finger through the hole, as if to prove that his pants really are ripped. Micah leaves them by your side as you tell him you'll work on them once you've finished fixing this shirt.

"You want anything?" Micah offers, and tilts his head in confusion when you look over at him with a smile.

"Are you waiting on me, Mister Bell?" you tease. He is waiting on you, isn't he? Micah feels like a fool, a happy and lovesick fool who is willingly putting his ego to the side, just so he can reach an arm out for you. If Amos could see him now, he'd point and laugh, calling Micah out for being a hypocrite, telling him that he knew this would happen one day, that Micah would finally meet his match, and change his ways.

But Amos isn't here right now, so Micah ignores those thoughts...

"I'm just offering. Figured if you're helping me out, then the least I can do is help you out," Micah replies with a somewhat smug tone, as if he's the one doing the larger favour here.

"A coffee would be nice," you hint.

"A coffee it is."

  
Micah Bell with a coffee in his hand is an extremely rare sight, so it's no surprise that a few camp members look his way as he pours the drink. As Micah wanders back over to you, Dutch calls his name, and Micah stops in his tracks to ask what his higher-up wants.

"Yes, boss?" Micah questions, and ignores the funny look Dutch gives him as he stares at the foreign item in his hand.

"You busy, Micah?" Dutch questions.

"I'll be free in a moment, just taking this over to Miss-"

"-I didn't know you two were close," Dutch cuts him off, and Micah pouts at his reply.

"We ain't, she's fixing my pants, so I figured the least I can do is fetch her something to drink whilst she works," Micah explains, and begins to feel odd. Has Dutch caught him out? is he nervous? what exactly is this uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. It's not quite sickly, but it is setting off his fight or flight response, as if Micah is in the wrong and Dutch is calling him out for it, in his subtle Dutch style.

"Come back over to me once you've delivered her coffee, I've a few things to discuss," Dutch orders, and Micah replies with a "sure, boss," before heading back over to you.

  
The cup of coffee is placed by your side as Micah squats down, "I've gotta go talk to Dutch," Micah informs you.

"Alright, thank you," you give him a smile.

Micah dips his head slightly and stands, about to turn away, but you ask a quick question. "Where shall I leave this once it's fixed?" you question, considering Micah doesn't even have a bedroll that you can dump them on.

"Uh," Micah pauses, looking around the camp, "just by the campfire," he suggests.

"And risk somebody using them as firewood? I don't think so," you laugh. "I'll just keep them in my tent, feel free to grab them whenever you need them."

"Alright, thanks, doll," Micah nods, and trails off, heading back over to Dutch.

  
 _Doll._ It's obvious he's sweet on you, especially considering he can barely keep his eyes on you whenever he talks. And who would have thought that the notorious Micah Bell, a ruthless outlaw and killer, is sappy on a woman simply because she treats him with basic respect? The bar for Micah's affection is low, but only because he's never had anybody attempt to pine for him, because honestly, who would?

  
Micah's hands come to rest on his gun belt, leaning his weight onto one leg, his ears perking up as Dutch begins chatting away to him. "Are you sure you two aren't close, Micah?" Dutch questions again.

"We're about as close as me and any other camp member," Micah replies in an attempt to directly avoid the question.

"Oh, so she must despise you," Dutch says with a laugh, and Micah nervously laughs along. "Your friend has been nagging to me for months about heading out on a job with us, just like Miss Karen does on occasion. It's not that I don't trust the woman, I'm just uncertain where she can come into play."

"So, what'cha got planned for her, boss?" Micah questions.

"I'm thinking you take her out for a small robbery, something basic like a stagecoach or a homestead. I know that you'll inform me on how well she performs, and from there, I might be inclined to bring her out on future heists," Dutch explains.

Micah lets out a sigh, moving his hands to rest on his hips as he shifts his weight onto his other leg. "Course, Dutch, if that's what you want."

"It's what I need, Micah," Dutch corrects him.

"Alright then, you got your eye on anything particular?"

"I figured I'd leave that for you. I'm sure you have enough leads, and hopefully one will fit."

"That I do," Micah nods. "Guess I'll head out there not, scout a few ideas out and when the time is right, we'll follow it through."

"Perfect," Dutch grins.

Micah doesn't bother with a reply, knowing that Dutch has said what he needs to. He trails off once more, heading straight over to Baylock, and not glancing over your way as he passes.

  
There's a nervous knot in Micah's stomach as he swings his leg over Baylock's saddle, giving him a light tap with his spurs and trotting out of the camp. Dutch has really put him in a dilemma here, hasn't he? Micah cares for you, there's no denying that, but what if he's the cause of your downfall? what if this robbery goes wrong and you end up injured? or worse, dead.

And if Micah downplays the robbery, picking out an easy target, then you'll be in for a hell storm when the time comes to rob with the gang. Micah knows he can't stay by your side, and you probably don't want him to baby you. He's overheard you talk about how eager you are to get out there, how you've pulled your weight on your own heists before, but robbing with **the** gang is different...

  
Micah spends a few days away from camp, riding from location to location, scouting out the perfect target for you. He's scolding himself constantly for doing this, for 'wasting' so much time on you; part of him wants to say 'fuck it' and drag you out to a random homestead and hope you don't fail, his mind telling him that he shouldn't be so 'goddamn soft' on a woman who's quite clearly eager to bring in some cash.

Finally, something suitable appears, and Micah collects the information he needs, then sets off back to camp. You assumed earlier that week that when you saw Micah riding out of camp, that he'd be gone for a few days, and that explains why his fixed (and washed) pants have been sitting in your tent ever since.

Waiting. 


End file.
